I watch the horizon, the swirling, spinning universe coming awake above me, feeling a calm in my chest, the night sky familiar to me in a way that no place down here could ever feel.
My thoughts pinwheel back, sifting through all the stories Mom told me about the stars, about a woman who, just like us, looked up at the night sky andwondered. She was the first to chart the sky, tomeasure and make notes of what she saw. And her stories are mine now. Carried in my veins, in the ink tattooed on my skin.
I sink onto the soft, quilted bed, too exhausted to pull the blankets over me, and let my eyes sink closed. It seems strange to sleep in a room without star maps or constellations sketched onto paper hung from the walls. But still, I drift into dreams of stars spinning,spinningin that endless dark, galaxies erupting, planets taking shape—green and bottomless blue. I dream of the orchard. Of apples like round moons. But then the men appear, burns on their arms that still smolder and spark, striding up through the orchard, hissing my name. “Vega… Vega…” Their voices as thin as air, while the man with the slit across his throat reaches out for me, hand cold and wet, rain falling from the red, dying sky. He pulls one of the pistols from his hip and points it to my skull, metal pressing against my soft skin. “Tell me who you really are?” he hisses in my ear, but before I can answer, he pulls the trigger.
I wake, hands grasping for the ceiling, trying to push him back, push the dream away, and almost let out a scream. I sink back onto the bed, gulping down the cold morning air, then force myself to stand, to stagger to the window. Needing to see, to be sure.
But there are no men on the road. No horses. Everything is quiet.
I slide down to the floor, hands pressed to my eyes, then open them again, staring up at the sky.
The sun isn’t yet above the horizon, but just above the tree line, the silvery night sky has a sheen to it, a flickering quality—like moisture caught in the air, refusing to turn to rain.
The anomaly.
At night, it is a dark blot in the sky taking up half the horizon,but at dawn and dusk, when the light strikes at just the right angle, it turns shimmery and gleaming—as if it were reaching long tendrils of light down to us, licking at the lower atmosphere over our heads. Mom often stayed up late to chart and measure it, searching for any glimmer of hope.
It’s beautiful. But it also sends sharp needles of fear down my spine.
I stare at it a moment longer, blinking, watching, but then it dissipates like dew, and I close the window.
With the sun burning bright against the soft blue sky, the anomaly is gone from view.
But I know it’s still there.
Always there.
Getting closer.
We walk away from the farmhouse, down the drive, the mule plodding behind us with the crate of tonic and jug of water strapped to a harness, jars rattling.
The green of the hills gives way to dry soil and fewer trees, while the sky is still flecked with a few strange particles of light—a grittiness to it, the sunrise a peculiar luster of green.
We travel a full day, the hours flitting away like scraps of paper burning over a campfire, then camp in the open beside an old hemlock that’s been split down its center, struck by lightning, the bark turned black and molten. The mule drinks water from the bucket while Pa and I eat canned apples and cold beans. We sleep—restlessly—and in the morning, before the sun is up, we start downthe road again. Always watchful of the road behind us, listening for the sound of horses drawing close.
The taste of dust sticks at the back of my throat.
The sun a wavy, pulsing eye, tracking our path.
But by midday, we reach Fort Bell, a grit-coated town appearing in the flat middle of nothing.
A crush of people is streaming into the town, clogging the main street—some ride on horseback, others in creaking, wobbling carts and wagons, while a few, like us, are on foot—striding into Fort Bell seeking shade and fresh water.
I’ve never seen so many people in my life, and a strange, bubbling excitement churns inside me. On the outskirts of town, I can see tents and wagons dotting the dry land—campsites. There must be several hundred people, gathered from every direction. All come for the market.
“Remember to keep your neck covered,” Pa tells me as we make our way up the main street. “And don’t tell anyone where you’re from.”
“I won’t.”
But my mind is thinking of something else:the Architect. With so many people crowded into one place, surely someone will have heard of him. Will know who he is.
This is my best chance, and I don’t intend to waste it.
We make our way up the main street, and I read every sign swaying above doorways and shop windows, advertising hardware stores and apothecaries, bathhouses and blacksmiths and saloons. A sheriff’s office, two hotels, and even a bank. Fort Bell is swollen with activity, people passing through doorways and dogs barking and awoman singing from a second-story balcony—a slow, enchanting, dirt-road kind of song. A tune to lure weary travels into the town for the annual market.
My ears thrum with the energy of it. Eyes absorbing in wonder. But there is also a small, nagging fear at the back of my skull.What if those men are here? Or others like them—scavengers or Theorists. Those who would steal what little we have left.
Instinctively I brush my fingers down my hair, making sure the mark on my neck is still covered, that no eyes will stray across it by accident… when I see it.
